


Thursday, Before Noon

by fancypantsdothatdance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 15:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancypantsdothatdance/pseuds/fancypantsdothatdance
Summary: Eyes only. ;)Natasha’s use of emoji makes Sharon’s stomach clench. A winky face from the Black Widow could mean supreme fun or absolute death. Most likely both. Either way, Nat will be the only one actually having a good time.Sharon opens her desk drawer and grabs an extra clip and a tin of breath mints.Either or.





	Thursday, Before Noon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenfoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfoxes/gifts).



> This is the writing equivalent of a macaroni, paste, and glitter card for sevensneakyfoxes (and sort of myself) on the occasion of our birth anniversaries. I haven't written anything aside from the odd grocery note since 2012. So don't mind if some of the glitter and macaroni bits fall off into your lap! ;)

Situation urgent. Report to Eagle’s nest.

Agent Romanoff’s text could have come at a worse time, but Sharon isn’t exactly sure what that would entail. Already, two trainees lost a suspect and the surveillance van - probably not a coincidence, probably - a sentient dimensional portal ripped through the fabric of reality in Nick Fury’s favorite local coffee shop devouring the espresso machine and a case of fresh sour cream doughnuts - without paying, and Maven from R&D somehow became magnetized, causing office supplies, belt buckles, and all the hair pins in Thompson’s beehive to fly across the lab and onto her face. Plus, there was the pen that exploded across Sharon’s shirt and jacket, configuring into a remarkably close representation of a unicycle – definitely not a coincidence. Then…Perkins. And Perkins…well Perkins...

Eyes only. ;)

Natasha’s use of emoji makes Sharon’s stomach clench. A winky face from the Black Widow could mean supreme fun or absolute death. Most likely both. Either way, Nat will be the only one actually having a good time.  
Sharon opens her desk drawer and grabs an extra clip and a tin of breath mints. 

Either or.  
-  
Traffic is light enough Sharon makes it to the Eagle’s nest in record time – rapidly growing dimensional ruptures do occasionally work in one’s favor, despite what her mother may have told her. 

Rendezvous level 5. :))))))

Sharon pops a mint into her mouth, breathes deeply for a moment, and starts out the door. She pauses, considers the five extra mouths on the text smile, and slides back into the car, grabbing the extra clip from the glove compartment, tucking it in the hidden pocket of her gray (and now unicycled) jacket. Feast or famine, she thinks.

A group has gathered around a delivery truck double parked in front of the tidy brick building. The air is full of wild hand gesturing and the level of noise one would expect from a crowd three times the size. She hangs back at the edges, escaping notice. One elderly woman sporting a rather vivid caftan is lost in laughter while her more muted companion simply fans herself, repeating “Took my breath right away!” The driver of truck is the only silent member of the cacophonic cluster, standing next to the open door with his hands on top of his head, expression glazed. His partner shouts and points at the building with two other men.  
Realizing she isn’t getting anywhere with the bystanders, (where’s that surveillance van when you need it? Oh, that’s right, missing.) Sharon moves on, letting herself into the noiseless building.  
She makes quick work of the stairs, pausing to visually sweep each floor before moving onto the next, reaching the landing on the fifth floor. She rests her hand on the small of her back where her gun is concealed, taking the last few steps slow. She checks over her shoulder then forward where she sees a man near her apartment door. 

Caucasian, 6’0, 220lbs, white tight t-shirt, jeans, brown motorcycle boots, washing machine over left shoulder.

Washing machine over left shoulder.

A man with his (exciting) back to her. A man who’s face (also exciting) she’s studied from countless photos in a file currently in her desk drawer next to an empty space that held her spare clip and a tin of mints not 25 minutes ago. A file with ink splotches Rohrschached into mini unicycles. A file dating back to 1941. 

Slippery, Nat.

She relaxes her posture and strolls down the hall with just the most casual attitude anyone could ever force upon oneself. Just casual casualness.  
“Hey…neighbor,” she says softly.

“Oh, hey,” the man turns. It is Steve Rogers. Of course it’s Steve Rogers. Ofcourseofcourseofcourse. He takes a few steps towards Sharon. “Steve Rogers,” he offers his hand. He is still casually holding the washing machine on one shoulder. Casually.

“Yes? Yes. I’m…5B,” she slowly replies, carefully shaking his outstretched hand. A song that says something about glory glory hallelujah plays faintly in the back of her head. They lock eyes for approximately five million years. “5B is me.” He chuckles warmly, still holding her hand and the washing machine. 

“Could you unlock my door for me, 5B? Kinda got a handful,” he smiles, still holding her hand. Still holding the washing machine. 

Standing there with his crinkly-eyed smile, it occurs to Sharon it really is the damnedest thing. His eyelashes are at peak flutter capacity. His mouth, although stretched in a genuine smile, is at prime kissing fullness. Even the pupils in his are alluringly large. Oh God.

“What are neighbors for?” Do you have the keys? Or…?”

“Yeah! Oh, yeah!” Regrettably, he lets go of her hand to reach into his pocket (somehow). He fumbles the keys, but makes a nice recovery by not dropping the machine. They laugh in that this-really-isn’t-funny-but-it’s-funny-in-its-unfunny way.

“Allow me.” She maneuvers around him and the machine, unlocking the door in what is the longest and shortest time ever on record. Time rift. 

A quick glance around the apartment only provides her with a look at empty shelves, bare white walls, and a shield (the shield) leaning idly against the only chair in the room. 

“Do you need a hand with the dryer?” she asks with just a tad too much hope in her voice.

“It’s already in. But, but, my refrigerator is being delivered tomorrow, so… ?”

“No, yeah, I can open any doors that need opening.”

“Great! Great. It’s on the books. It’s a date. Well, not…it’s an appointment,” he says, earnestly nodding, still with washing machine in hand, on shoulder, whatever. 

“Great,” she smiles.

“Great,” he repeats, smiling, not looking away.

“Yes, great,” she tucks her hair behind her ear, looking away, her heart strings good and plucked.

Oh pluck me.

“I’ll let you get to it then,” Sharon gestures him through the door and switches places with him. “If you ever need anything, I’m right next door. A cup of sugar, I’m your girl!”

I’m your girl?

“Thanks, 5B.” Steve turns to go, then turns back, gesturing to the door with the washing machine. “Oh, um…?”

“Right!” Sharon closes the door behind him and turns to her apartment. Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

Sugar???? :0

She looks around the empty hallway, pops another mint in her mouth, keys in a quick message, and hits send.

;))))))


End file.
